God Put a Smile Upon Your Face
by Lila2
Summary: Eight Times Someone in Glee Was a Friend to Quinn Fabray and One Time Someone Was a Little Bit More
1. Part I

**Title: **"God Put a Smile Upon Your Face (Or Eight Times Someone in Glee was a Friend to Quinn Fabray and One Time Someone Was a Little Bit More)"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating:** PG-13

**Character/Pairing:** Quinn, assorted members of Glee

**Spoiler:** "Preggers"

**Length: **Part I of III

**Summary: **It's the people Quinn least expects that keep her afloat.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.

**Author's Note:** First time writing for this fandom, although I've wanted to tackle these characters since the sneak-peek over the summer. As we don't know if Quinn is giving the baby to Terri, the fic is written as if she's decided to keep it and raise it herself. Originally intended as a one-shot but it kind of ran away with itself and turned out quite long; it's now coming out in three parts over the course of the week. Title courtesy of Coldplay. (yes, Coldplay – leave me alone). Enjoy.

* * *

**I. Finn**

---

It's an exact moment when you know your life is over.

There's a lull in Cheerios' practice, three minutes to guzzle water in the relative peace of the empty bleachers. Three minutes without the shrill yell of Coach Sylvester's voice in your ear and the vice grip of Lance's hands constricting the blood flow to your thighs.

You're watching football practice, a smile turning up the corners of your mouth as your eyes lock on Finn's tall, lanky form.

He's scanning the field for receivers, the football held between his hands with practiced ease, when he stops and his jaw tightens in a way that never means anything good. Suddenly he's racing across the field, receivers and tight ends and linemen be damned, and slams into Puck so hard his helmet tumbles to the side when he hits the dirt.

He stands there, shoulders heaving and eyes blazing, while Puck doesn't move, doesn't even twitch. Coach Tanaka blows the whistle and the other players crowd around in stunned silence and nausea creeps up your throat and spills into your mouth.

For the first time in six weeks it has nothing to do with morning sickness.

---

You wait for Finn after practice, wait almost an hour while Tanaka reams him out and Puck is pronounced fine (a minor concussion but he'll recover), and he won't look you in the eye even as he stops to face you.

"Hi," you start, smile, put a hand on his arm, try to distract him with the charm that drew him to you in the first place.

It doesn't work. He shrugs off your touch and leans back against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest in a defensive pose. "I did a google search," he explains. "I was worried about the hot tub, how hot it was in there. I wanted to make sure we didn't hurt the baby." He pauses and his eyes narrow as they finally stare into yours. "Turns out, you can't get pregnant in a hot tub. You might be having a baby, Quinn, but it's not mine."

It's your turn to pause because it's suddenly getting hard to breathe. You grip a locker just to keep standing up. "I didn't know what else to do," you manage to say and it's the truth. This isn't part of your game. You had your back against the wall; there was never a choice.

"You and my best friend," he says. "I can't believe I didn't see it earlier."

That night flashes through your eyes, tears you cried after weigh-in and the sickly sweet taste of the wine coolers and the way his hands skimmed over your skin like you might break if he pressed too hard. "It just happened once," you insist. "It was a mistake. The biggest mistake I ever made. He's Puck," you try to explain and he winces, recoils at the name of his personal Judas. "He can barely spell his own name let alone raise a baby. I know it was wrong, but it wasn't just me I was looking out for."

Suddenly his expression softens, the rigid set of his shoulders slumps, and he's the fatherless, mama's boy Finn you've known since the second grade. "You're right," he says. "This isn't just about you or about me." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I'll keep your secret. I won't tell anyone who the baby's father is. But I can't be that person either. Do you understand, Quinn? Whatever story you tell, I don't want to be part of it."

You nod, your pastor's words replaying in your ears: "We come into this world alone and leave it the same way." You might as well start now. "Thank you," you say and reach up to your locker, fiddle with the lock but your hands are shaking so hard you can't get it open.

"Let me," he says and his fingers deftly work the dial, always the gentleman and always doing the right thing. You can't say the same of your own behavior any longer.

The lock opens and you reach into your locker, pull out the scrap of green cloth he gifted to you just a few days earlier. "I think this belongs to you," you say and push the blanket towards him.

He shakes his head. "It's yours. Once you give someone a gift you can't take it back."

"But I lied to you. You didn't give it under honest circumstances."

He reaches out and clasps your hands under the blanket, large, warm fingers wrapping tightly around yours. "I grew up without a dad and it sucked but this blanket made it a little easier. Maybe it will do the same for your kid. He squeezes your fingers once, twice. "I'll be your friend, Quinn. If you need me, just ask."

He tries to pull away, but you cling tightly to his hands. You're not ready to watch him walk out of your life; you're not ready to do this on your own.

"I'm sorry," you say and he just smiles sadly, shoulders his bag, and starts down he hallway.

You wait until he's gone before you let the tears fall.

---

**II. Brittany**

---

Six weeks turns into seven and then eight and in the middle of the ninth week you can't hide the swelling rise of your stomach or the boobs that have grown to twice their previous size.

You clasp your binder over the hard curve of your belly, drape a sweater over your shoulders because it's Ohio and its winter and its cold and your cheerleading uniform reveals more skin than it conceals. But you can't hide the red thread straining against white polyester or the deep vee of cleavage that steals the gaze of every boy in every one of your classes.

Coach Sylvester frowns during your weekly weigh-in and your shoulders slump because even though you've ruined your future its still hurts when the entire world seems disappointed in you.

Brittany doesn't say a word, but there's sympathy in her eyes while the rest of the squad looks disgusted. She stays close to Santana during the bulk of practice and you hold your place in the spotlight knowing the end is drawing close. The season is almost over and when there are no more games there's no reason any of these girls will call you friend. Hypocrite is an easy word to slip off the tongue, especially when it involves a pregnant president of the celibacy club.

Still, Brittany has kind eyes and doesn't join in the hushed jibes and she catches your elbow in the locker room after practice.

"Hey, Quinn," she says and releases her grip but doesn't walk away.

You're surprised she's talking to you. You're good, so very good, and Sylvester has been too distracted by New Directions to catch on but the rest of the squad knows what's lurking under the McKinley logo sprawling across your increasingly ample chest. Hypocrite is the kindest slur the crowd has whispered under its breath.

"Hi, Brittany," you respond and manage a smile. You see her every day, sometimes twice, between Glee and Cheerios, but this is the first time she's talked to you where others can see.

She smiles in return, wary at first and then like the girl you've known since kindergarten. She reaches into her locker and pulls out a uniform. "I made this for you." You don't understand. The outfit in her hands looks exactly like the one you're wearing, minus the straining seams. She sees your confusion and her smile widens, blindingly white teeth gleaming under the florescent lights. "Look," she says and you slowly see the nearly invisible panels she's sewn into the waistband of the skirt, the side seam of the top. "I can see how uncomfortable you are at practice. We have one more game and you won't have to deal with it anymore. It's our last show. I thought you should enjoy it."

Your eyes tear (no longer a surprise, not with all the hormones running amuck through your system), and you whisper a watery thank you.

She smiles again, this time in understanding, and pats your hand. She turns to leave but you stop her with a question. "Brittany, where did you learn to sew like this?"

Something bright and hungry flashes through her eyes and you've never heard her sound more confident. "I have dreams too," she says and you realize that in all the years you've known her the only dreams you've discussed are how the tiara will settle in your hair on prom night and what color bridesmaid dresses will best match Finn's groomsmen's ties. "I'm going to be a designer, on _Project Runway_. One day everyone who's anyone will be wearing my clothes."

You slip off your uniform, ignore the way her eyes round slightly at the bulge of belly and boobs, and pull on her present. "It's perfect," you say and meet her eyes in the mirror.

She laughs shakily and this time her smile is watery. "You're the first person to wear something I made."

"I'm honored," you say and mean it. You recognize the determination in her eyes, the yearning to leave this place and its trappings and make something of yourself for the world to see.

You blew your shot to hell but she still has a chance.

---

**III. Mercedes**

---

You've just started your second trimester when your mother walks in on you coming out of the shower and the truth comes pouring out. You're grounded, you're going to be sent away, you're a slut and a whore, and your mother cries every time she looks at you.

They don't send you away but you spend most days wishing they would. You tell them that you're keeping the baby and your mother cries more and your father doesn't know what to do, but still decides that you can't be trusted. He takes your car keys, and then your house key, and suddenly you're no longer sure if you're his daughter or his prisoner.

You're not sure it matters. You only know you can't look him in the eye because the disappointment there makes you want to shrivel up and die (no longer an option, not with the second life you're responsible for). You bow your head and follow his orders and play the part of the good soldier you weren't before.

You take the bus to school, share a seat with other nobodies and losers, because that's who you are now. You usually sit by the widow, rest your forehead against cool glass and watch the winter wasteland on the way to your personal hell.

Sometimes you wonder, if the ground can turn green and the plants push through with renewed purpose, if you can take back you life too. Most of the time, you try not to think too far ahead; ignoring consequences is what got you into this mess in the first place.

One morning, you trudge out of your house in parka and boots, heading for the bus stop and the Lifetime movie that's your life, and there's a brown Accord running its engine on your curb. Mercedes is propped against the passenger side door, her breath catching in the magenta, faux-fur trimmed collar of her coat.

"I've been waiting for you," is her opening line.

You temper down the urge to look around and see if she's talking to someone else. You spend time with her at practice and sometimes her voice gives you shivers because she's just that good, but you think this might be the only time you've had an actual conversation. "Hi, Mercedes," you say and pause at the foot of the walkway.

"Heard your dad took your ride. It isn't much," she explains and gestures to the Honda. "But it has heat and a great stereo and isn't the bus. Wanna ride?"

"To school?" you ask and know you sound like a complete idiot but you're too surprised to say much else.

"No, to see Mary J at the House of Blues. Yes, to school. Now get in before I freeze to death and never get to open for Alicia Keys."

You trudge to the car as best you can, snow holding you back more than baby, and slip into the passenger seat. Mercedes guns the engine and heads down the street.

"Thank you," you say quietly. "I really appreciate the ride."

"I rode that bus for two years," she says just as quietly. "It's not quite like having a slushie thrown in your face, but it's close." She pauses. "No one deserves that."

The unsaid insult lingers in the air, a prank about Kurt's sexuality hanging awkwardly between you. You never threw a slushie in anyone's face but you certainly ran with that crowd and never said a word of disapproval about their behavior. The things you said to Rachel and others ring through your ears – "Ru Paul, man hands" – and you know you're getting as good as you gave. Mercedes looks guilty but you wave it away and force a smile. "It's not so bad, but this is much better. I mean, you have heat and Beyonce."

Mercedes smiles, grateful for the smooth transition (you weren't Queen Bee for years without learning certain skills), and turns up the music.

_"If I were a boy, even just for a day…"_ You close your eyes, lean back against the head rest. _"I'd kick it with who I wanted and never get confronted for it. Because they'd stick up for me..."_

Everything waiting for you at school flashes before your eyes: the stares and the jeers and proud smiles because not only has a queen fallen but she's circling the drain of pathetic. Finn walks into your line of vision before the truth came out, letter jacket hanging from his shoulders even as friends and acquaintances and teachers clap him on the back and praise his manhood, his brawn, his virility – all those SAT words you memorized a year ago and mean the same thing: he won even as you lost.

Mercedes breaks into your thoughts. "Oh, hell to the 'naw. I ain't giving men a free pass to treat women like crap." Her fingers fiddle with her iPod and the songs changes just as the car pulls into the McKinley High lot.

You both pause for a moment, watching the people mill about before heading inside. "We can cut today," you suggest even though you barely know each other and you've never skipped a day of school in your life.

Mercedes says nothing for a long moment, holds her head high and lets out a deep breath as Kurt and Tina wave across the lot . _"I'm a survivor. I'm not gonna give up..."_

"Take it from someone who knows – if we don't go inside, it's like we're letting the terrorists win."

You laugh, because it's true, and push open your door to step into the cold. You follow her lead as you walk to the school and keep your head held high the entire time.

* * *

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	2. Part II

**Title:** "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face (Or Eight Times Someone in Glee was a Friend to Quinn Fabray and One Time Someone Was a Little Bit More)"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating: **PG-13

**Character/Pairing:** Quinn, assorted members of Glee

**Spoiler:** "The Rhodes Not Taken"

**Length: **one-shot

**Summary: **It's the people Quinn least expects that keep her afloat.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.

**Author's Note:** Thank you *so* much for the support for this fic. I really appreciate all the feedback. I upped the spoiler a teeny bit for the last episode so if you missed it, consider yourself warned. Otherwise, enjoy.

* * *

**IV. Rachel**

---

Your parents ignore you and the growing bump lurking under your sweater. You live in their house and eat their food and sometimes exchange pleasantries over laundry or polishing the good silver, but it's like you stopped being their child the day you acquired one of your own.

You go clothes shopping with Brittany because your mother won't be seen with you in public and carpool with Mercedes for rides to and from school because your father would rather you take the bus with the other fallen sinners than sully his car with your mistakes. Finn sometimes carries your books between classes, when you're stretching your back and the slight bump of baby presses out, and an expression halfway between guilty and relieved clouds his face. He's too much of a gentleman to let a pregnant girl heft three binders all morning but too human not to feel grateful that your baby is someone else's problem. Mostly, you spend your time alone. It's enough that you carry the stain of a ruined life; you don't blame others for avoiding bringing it on themselves.

You're past things surprising you all that much – you bypassed that hurdle the morning that stick turned pink and your future imploded before your eyes – but you can't hide the shocked expression on your face when you walk into your gynecologist's waiting room and Rachel Berry is sitting in a chair, reading an ancient edition of "US Weekly" and jiggling her right knee in time to the Carrie Underwood playing softly over the speakers.

"Rachel?"

"Hi!" she says, too loud and too high, nervous and out of place in this land of sex and babies, and jumps to her feet.

You can do little more than stare at her, remembering all the times you fought with her over Finn, over Glee, over your place on the hierarchy. You remember insulting her and hurting her and fearing her because you thought she was ruining everything that mattered to you. You rest one hand on your back, another on your belly; turns out, you did that all by yourself. "What are you doing here?" you ask because while you might have returned her solo in "Don't Stop Believin'" (the song's fantasy is too much of a hard sell in your condition), Rachel Berry is still the last person you'd expect to see here.

"I did a google search," she says and he might not be yours anymore but you can't help but wonder how much time she's spending with Finn. "You can find out the baby's sex in the fifth month."

"I know. But what does any of that have to do with you?" Finn is definitely not yours anymore; you smooth your voice to an even purr.

She looks unsure of herself, the first time in all the months you've known her. "Please don't be angry with her but Mercedes told me that your parents make you come to these appointments alone. That they said if you're old enough to have a baby, you're old enough to take care of it. I thought you might like some company."

Your cheeks flame red, because the entire world already knows one of your dirty secrets but you hoped it would never learn the other. "I'm fine, Rachel. I appreciate the support but you can go home."

Her jaw tightens in a way that only means she's more determined than before. You don't know Rachel well, but you know she's not a quitter, not really. She's a survivor, and she bends and molds and rebuilds with every step towards living her dream. Now all that resolve is locked on you and you're not sure you have the energy to put up a fight. You're tired these days, exhausted, and not from the weight you're carrying or the hormones sapping your strength. You're tired of the stares and you're tired of the taunts and you're tired of remembering how your life used to be, just four months ago, close enough to touch. Rachel will see her name in lights one day but you'll always be that girl who pledged chastity but still got knocked up during her senior year. It's not fair, but neither is life; it's a lesson you've learned too well.

You want her to go, walk out of your life so it doesn't taint hers because someone has to get out of this place with hope still intact. But she surprises you even though she's the most predictable person you've ever known. She takes your hands in hers, like Finn that last day, and you no longer care how much time she's spending with him because it's the first time anyone but your doctor has touched you in two months.

"You don't even like me," you whisper. "I was mean to you."

"Mr. Schue says Glee is about more than me," she says softly. "He says it's more than just singing. We're a part of something, a part of something together, and it doesn't end just because we're not at school. If I let you down when you needed me the most I'd never forgive myself." You feel the phantom splash of a slushie against your face, hear the taunting laugh of jeers and jokes, and lock eyes on the nasty messages posted on MySpace for the world to see. You think about how Rachel came to school every single day knowing what she was facing; you think about the way she never, ever gave up. If she could do it, maybe you can too.

The receptionist calls your name and you look up sharply, blink once, expecting Rachel to be gone when you open your eyes.

She's still there, a smile on her face. "We'll do this together, okay?"

You can't do more than nod as she helps you to your feet; it's only when you're following her down the hall that you realize you haven't let go of her hand.

---

Rachel's at your side as the tech rubs jelly on your belly and you both laugh when a soft curse hisses through your lips because you weren't expecting it to be so cold. Your baby is in perfect health: ten finger and ten toes and a heart and lungs developing just right. You let out a sigh of relief that your baby isn't suffering for the way you created it.

"Would you like to know the sex?" your doctor asks and you're terrified to know the truth. You have four months until you face the consequences of your actions; you're not sure you're ready for a preview now.

"Quinn, do you want to know?" Rachel asks. "I hope you do. If I'm going to throw your baby shower, I need to know what color to use."

You look up at her, ever present tears welling in your eyes, but she's smiling, this girl you tortured for two years, silently telling you that she'll be there to the end. You don't deserve her friendship, but right now you're not sure you can go on without it. You always thought your mom would be here the first time you did this, eyes locking together on the child, grandchild, that would soon be a part of your world. Your mom isn't here, won't even acknowledge that this day is happening, but Rachel still hasn't left your side. You're not sure why she's doing this but you no longer care; you don't want to be alone right now. "Okay," you say. "Is it a boy or girl?"

It's a girl, just the barest outline of her on the monitor, but you can't take your eyes from the flailing arms and legs and pulsing beat of her heart.

They give you a print out of the sonogram and you can't stop staring at it, not while you're waiting for Rachel to pull the car around (you don't call you mom to pick you up and don't care what the reaction will be) or the ride home while she chatters on end beside you.

"Quinn," she breaks into your thoughts at a red light a mile from your parents' house. Why wasn't Puck with you at the doctor's?"

Your fingers still on the photo of your daughter (his daughter too) and you grip the edges of your parka so tight your knuckles hurt. "What do you mean?" you ask but you've never been a good enough actress to keep the surprise out of your voice.

Rachel glances at you, sympathy in her eyes. It makes your insides turn, Rachel Berry feeling sorry for you, but it's better than the usual mocking laughter so you don't look away. "Last week at Glee practice, Puck punched Jacob Ben Israel in the face."

"Why?"

"He was interviewing us for the school paper and made a joke about how you don't need to sing with Finn anymore because every time you get on stage you're already doing a duet. Puck…he didn't react well." You vaguely remember seeing Jacob with tape on his nose, but weren't present for the incident. Despite your hatred for your weekly sessions with Ms. Pillsbury, you're glad you didn't witness your own humiliation. "We're slow on the uptake sometimes, but even Mercedes put two and two together."

The light changes and she looks away, your cheeks flushing with humiliation in the darkness. Your last dirty secret and the entire world knows. "Are they going to tell?"

Rachel smiles, you know she does even in the darkness, and you think it has little to do with you. "Finn kind of put the fear of god in him. Puck too." She looks away from the road, just for a moment, just long enough to smile for you. "You're one of us. We'll keep your secret."

The car slows in front of your house and the familiar dread tightens through your chest. Out here, you can breathe; in there you always feel like you're suffocating under the weight of your parents' disapproval.

Rachel must sense your hesitation because she takes your hand again and squeezes tight. "You're not alone, Quinn. I saw the way you looked at her. You love your daughter and she's going to love you in return."

You appreciate her concern but still don't understand. "Rachel, why are you doing this?"

She looks at you, really looks at you, shows you how there's so much strength in that pint-sized body. "I'm lucky," she says softly. "And not just because of my talent. I don't have a mom, but I have two dads. I was created out of love. Every one of us should feel the same."

You glance towards your house. It's late and the lights are dimmed and you'll be lucky if your mother has left food out rather than leaving you to your own devices. Your fingers curl around the photo of your daughter. You can do things differently. It doesn't have to be the same.

"Thank you," you say. "Thank you _so_ much."

She promises to come to your next appointment and the one after that and makes another comment about your shower. There's four months to go; they suddenly seem a lot easier.

You fall asleep that night with your daughter's photo tucked under you pillow; when you wake in the morning, it's pressed tight against your heart.

---

**V. Artie**

---

Your back aches. No, it doesn't ache, it _aches_. Like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders (or just its collective disappointment), and you can't contain the wince or hiss of pain that whistles through your teeth when you pick up a fallen physics book.

You press a hand to the small of your back, belly pushing against the empire waist of your maternity shirt, and knead the strained muscles as the student body looks on with barely concealed laughter in their eyes.

You ignore the looks (you're good, so very good at that now) and try to straighten. It doesn't work as well as you planned; you cry out as pain shoots through your back like a flash of lightning breaking in a stormy sky.

You hear a snicker or two, but most of the crowd turns away because some things are too pathetic to mock.

There's a squeak as wheels grind against the linoleum floor and Artie grins up at you. There's nothing mocking in his eyes and it hurts a little less knowing someone, even a person you barely know, is one your side. "Wanna ride?" he asks and pats the shrunken thigh of his right leg.

He's sweet but you live in reality. "Artie, I'm carrying forty pounds of extra weight. I'd crush you on a good day, kill you on a bad one. Thanks but no thanks." You're firm, direct; it's a skill you've mastered in the past six months. Nothing like living through a scandal to coat your spine in steel.

He laughs and holds out a hand. "Quinn, I haven't used my legs my entire life. There's nothing you can do that doctors haven't spent sixteen years trying to undo." He pats his thighs again, smiles wider. "Come on. You deserve to put your feet up every now and then."

You don't hesitate this time. If you've learned anything since your tumble from the pedestal, it's to accept help any way it comes. You slip into his lap as gracefully as possible, difficult with the weight of baby and blubber dragging you down, but manage to slide into his lap. You're rather proud. You won't be able to tie your shoes in another month but you can still sit in a boy's lap. It's the small victories that you cherish.

"Where to, m'lady?" he asks and looks up at you, his eyes so kind and earnest that tears pool in yours (and it mostly has nothing to do with the hormones).

"Physics," you whisper and lean back, rest your aching back against the flat surface of his chest.

You ignore the stares and tune out the jokes but he's less willing to let go, and when Mark Bowen calls out, "wide load coming through," he responds by crushing the toe of Mark's pristine white Jordans under his front wheel (and your collective weight). Mark starts screaming and everyone wonders if the basketball season is lost, but you calmly lay one hand over Artie's and keep moving.

"You didn't have to do that," you say when he deposits you in front of your classroom. "You could be suspended. Or kicked out of Glee." The first will go on his permanent record, but the second involves an angry Rachel Berry; you know you'd both take your chances with the superintendent.

But he smiles at you, big and wide and proud; you've only see the same happiness on his face when one of his guitar solos is wailing through the auditorium. "It's not very often I get to slay dragons for the princess," he says and you can barely eke out a thank you.

You want to say more. You want to say you're not a princess, haven't been since the day your belly swelled too big to hide under your sweaters and Coach Sylvester tried to get you kicked out of school and Mr. Schuester narrowly saved your graduation by exchanging expulsion for meetings with Ms. Pillsbury. You don't say any of those things, and not just because the bell rings, but because it's true.

You might not be a princess but the story ends the same: when you fall, there are people there to catch you.

---

**VI. Tina**

---

By the time your seventh month rolls around you can no longer see your feet. Your back hurts and you have to pee every ten minutes and Brittany's on retainer for your Glee costumes because you no longer fit into the ones Principal Figgins orders.

You stare at yourself in the mirror during a bathroom break at Glee practice (your third in twenty minutes) and frown at the beach ball your face is beginning to resemble. Your hair is lank and has a weird curl (thanks, hormones!) and your skin keeps breaking out and there's puffiness to your limbs that your free weight reps can't seem to shed.

You want to cry.

You know you have bigger worries and more pressing concerns, but you're still seventeen years old and you miss your old face. You miss your old body. You miss your old life.

A stall door opens and Tina appears, a blur of blue eye-shadow and magenta-streaked hair.

You dab at your eyes, force a smile over your face while she washes her hands, and run a brush through your hair in a feeble attempt to give it some body. Tina watches the entire scene.

You barely know her. Mercedes drives you to school and Rachel attends every doctor's appointment and Artie carries your books now that the administration has forbidden him from carting you around, but Tina has always lurked in the shadows.

She's wearing a University of Michigan t-shirt, bleach-stained and torn at the neckline, but you'd recognize it anywhere; Michigan is sacrilege in Buckeye territory. It's ironic to her, but means the world to you. "I'm going to Michigan in the fall," you burst out and she doesn't say anything but her eyes round slightly.

She's the only person you've told.

You still think she's a bit of a stalker but you kept seeing Ms. Pillsbury and somewhere in your fifth month (the month Rachel started coming to doctor's appointments) you stopped talking about feelings and started talking about the future. She filled your head with scholarships and work study. She helped you research daycare and preschools and whispered in your ear, "you can do it!," so many times that you actually start believing her.

You applied to OSU and Ohio University and just to spite your dad, you mailed in a Michigan application the day before it was due.

You don't get into OSU or OU or Bowling Green or University of Akron or even Case, but Michigan wanted you; it wasn't supposed to be what you wanted but it wanted you. You couldn't say no.

"C-c-con—congratulations," she stutters and pauses by the paper towel dispenser. "It's a great school."

It is a great school and you think you can make it there. Ms. Pillsbury helped you find a scholarship and apply for workstudy. Money will be tight but you'll be able to pay your bills. You'll be able to do this on your own.

You follow Tina's eyes and catch your reflection in the mirror, the bloated face and greasy hair, and it makes you catch your breath.

This isn't how you anticipated college; this isn't the future you wanted. College was supposed to be football games and Rush and Homecoming Queen. College wasn't supposed to be changing diapers and swiping ids at the student gym.

You don't recognize the girl staring back at you.

Tina still doesn't say anything but she doesn't leave, stands behind you, watching you watching her. You know she likes girls more than boys but you also know even the most desperate lesbian doesn't go after the pregnant former cheerleader. Especially one with kinky hair and terrible skin and a rear end the size of a mack truck. Still, she doesn't look away. "Y—Yo—You look really pretty today," she says and her cheeks blush scarlet but she doesn't take the statement back.

You don't believe her, but know better than to turn down a compliment. "Thank you," you say even though your hair looks terrible and your skin is rivaling a puberty-ridden twelve-year-old's. "My hair has seen better days."

"It's not that," she says and doesn't stumble over the words once. "You have this glow. It gives you something no one else has."

She mumbles something indecipherable about getting back to practice but your eyes don't leave your reflection even after she leaves. Pregnancy glows are something of myth, or the first three months, but there is something different about you. Your back is straighter, your shoulders stronger, and there's a light in your eyes usually reserved for Rachel Berry.

You're going to make it; you're going to get out of this place and make something of yourself.

For the first time in seven months you feel beautiful.

* * *

Writers live for feedback – please leave some if you have the time.


	3. Part III

**Title:** "God Put a Smile Upon Your Face (Or Eight Times Someone in Glee was a Friend to Quinn Fabray and One Time Someone Was a Little Bit More)"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating: **PG-13

**Character/Pairing:** Quinn, assorted members of Glee

**Spoiler:** "The Rhodes Not Taken"

**Length: **Part III of III

**Summary: **It's the people Quinn least expects that keep her afloat.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.

**Author's Note:** Final installment, folks. Thank you, everyone, for such incredible support for this fic. I never expected such a response to this fic, so the feedback has been wonderful. Apologies for the delay in posting – I've been busy with work and traveling, so access to the computer has been tricky. But it's done, and I really cannot thank you all enough for loving this fic as much as I do. Also, if you haven't received a PM for chapter two reviews, they're coming, as are any responses for chapter three. Thank you again. Enjoy.

* * *

**VII. Kurt**

---

Kurt asks you to the Prom and your mind says no but you hear yourself saying yes.

You can't help it. It's been a part of your life for so long that the words slip out before you can think them all the way through.

Your old life feels further and further away and sometimes, after a doctor's appointment or when you're filling out daycare applications and the last of your FAFSA forms, you remember how much you've given up. Until your daughter kicks, strong and sure right beneath your heart, and you're confronted with how much you're gaining.

You remember that conversation with Finn at his locker, the dreams you'd spun and hoped would come true. You're coming to terms with new dreams, the future you're carving out for yourself , but its still hard letting go.

You want take the words back as soon as they leave your mouth but Kurt refuses to let you back out.

"I'm pregnant," you remind him (and Mercedes and Tina and Brittany during a lull in Glee practice).

"So is Darcy Spencer," Mercedes shares but doesn't smirk when four pairs of incredulous eyes meet hers. "She just isn't showing yet."

"Yeah, but I'm due in three weeks. I'll be the size of a house."

"You're still beautiful, Quinn," Tina says, the words perfect and clear as they leave her lips and strike a chord right in your heart.

"I don't have anything to wear – "

"I'll make you a dress," Brittany cuts you off, eyes bright and eager.

"It's in two days," you attempt and even though your excuses are weak and the battle is lost, you can't give up yet. If there's anything you've learned these past months, it's to always keep going.

Brittany laughs and throws a hand over her forehead in a theatrical gesture. "That's what faking a migraine is for. No sniffles or temperature, necessary. It might take me all night and most of tomorrow, but you'll have something to wear." You don't want her missing school but she's determined to do this. "Quinn, it will be such an honor for you to wear one of my designs."

You surrender. There are too many of them and only one of you. Kurt delivers the final blow just to make sure. "We live in Ohio. When else is there going to be so much tragic fashion to mock? You're a senior, Quinn. I'm just a sophomore. This is my only opportunity."

You know you can't say no. They've done too much for you, all of them. You know shattered dreams to well to back out of this now.

"Okay," you say, knowing you'll regret it but pasting a smile on your face anyway (years of Cheerios practice finally coming through). "Let's make it the time of our lives."

The cheesy line works and they all break into smiles to match yours.

---

Brittany comes through with the most beautiful dress you've ever seen. It's a deep, emerald green to match your eyes, sleeveless and falling to your knee. "I believe in the Reese Witherspoon school of maternity wear," she says during the fitting. "Draw attention to what you do well; it keeps the eyes from focusing on the belly." You've worn formal wear before, worn it tight and worn it loose, but always your choice because you had nothing to hide. The dress skims in gentle folds over your belly and there's no avoiding it but it's not all that's on display either. You feel a bit like yourself, when you were just Quinn Fabray and not "Pregnant Quinn Fabray." You'll be "Mama Quinn Fabray" for the rest of your life but for one night you're excited to have some of the old you back.

You take pictures at Kurt's, his dad beaming so wide you're worried his face might crack, because he might have come to terms with who Kurt is, but there's still a part of him that wants nothing more than his son to attend school dances with a beautiful girl. You know the feeling; you love your daughter already but it's times like tonight when you wish you were a regular teenager doing regular teenage things. It's not the prom you imagined, Finn on your arm and a tiara in your hair, but it's enough. With the current state of affairs you can't demand more.

You arrive on Kurt's arm, ignore the stares and whispers and temper down the urge to scream, "Yes, I'm actually here. The pregnant girl is really showing her face. Now shut up so I can enjoy my night."

Kurt fixes them with his death stare and does the work for you. After the initial shock has worn off, they turn to the spiked punch and mostly leave you alone. You feel the tension ease from your shoulders; you'd rather be invisible now than the star of the show for the wrong reasons.

Finn is there with Rachel and it should be awkward but you mostly find yourself relieved that you weren't suspicious all those months for nothing. He was the first boy you ever loved and you only want him to be happy, even if it's with someone else.

"How are you feeling?" Finn says and keeps his eyes firmly locked on your face, away from the swelling bump under your dress. Rachel's hand is on his back, prodding him along, holding him up the way she always has for you.

"I can't wait for it to be over. I want to see my feet again," you joke, hoping to lighten the mood. Kurt stands at your side, hand on your elbow, letting you know he has your back.

Rachel doesn't ask how you're doing because she because she already knows every detail of the last four months, but she does lend some advice. "I heard that if you stand in front of a speaker the vibrations can induce labor."

You laugh politely but hope for the opposite. You're enough of a cliché as is; you don't need to make matters worse by going into labor at the Prom.

They wander towards the dance floor and you keep your eyes on them, the way her head barely reaches his shoulder but his arm fits around her waist like it's where it was always meant to be. You put your hand on your belly and your daughter kicks, hard and strong, letting you know that she's still there. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be.

Kurt is still there too, standing behind you, ready to catch you if you f all. "How you doing, Quinn?" he asks.

"I think the worst is over," you say and force yourself to laugh. Nine months ago you thought you'd be battling your demons with Finn at your side. Today you're at your prom ready to give birth at the drop of a hat with a date who used to spend first period crawling out of a dumpster.

He takes a step forward, shoulder to shoulder, and scans the crowd. "You wanna dance?"

You should dance. A year ago you would have been at center stage for every song, a tiara in your hair and Finn on your arm. Tonight your feet ache and your belly itches and you still have to pee every ten minutes. You have a vision of _Fantastia_ and dancing hippos; you have no interest in recreating the scene in the McKinley High gym. "You go ahead, but I'll sit this one out."

He shakes his head and turns to you, one hand outstretched. "C'mon, Mama. Let's kick up our feet." You do little more than stare at his hand. It was one thing to come, to observe, to take in the night; it's another to put yourself on display for the entire school to see. "This isn't a choice," he says and bends to wrap his fingers around yours.

He's a little thing but stronger than you gave him credit for (all those football practices being put to good use) and he manages to pull all one hundred forty pounds of you onto the dance floor; you put your hands on his shoulders, your belly pushing a foot of space between you.

A year ago you would have been curled into Finn's chest, the beat of his heart pattering in your ear, strong arms holding you close. Kurt's fingers are lightly grazing the bare skin of your shoulder and the silk-covered curve of your hip, but you like the way you feel in his arms. He isn't holding you up but he's standing with you; you like that you don't have to do this alone.

"Do you think these people got dressed in the dark?" he asks as you sway together.

You glance around the room, take in the hot pink ball gowns and red sequined halters, and smile but don't respond. You know better to cast stones. "I think they're doing the best they can."

You cringe as the words come out of your mouth because this boy is here for you and the last thing he needs is criticism. He doesn't push you away or call you thankless. He only pulls you closer, so the huge bulge of your belly rests against the thin plane of his. "Touche, Q."

You lean forward, so your head rests on his shoulder, the way you always did with Finn and the fit isn't perfect (he's too short, too skinny, too shiny) but it doesn't matter. In three months, you'll be starting Michigan with your daughter in your arms and student loans following you into adulthood. Instead of pulling away you lean in closer and close your eyes. You're here. You're at your Prom. You're still standing. Just because you lost every dream you ever clung to doesn't mean you lost yourself entirely.

---

Rachel is only a sophomore but Finn wins prom king and Megan Hathaway is crowned queen. You struggle to your feet, Kurt's hand on your elbow, and clap for them, for Finn especially. After all he's been through, dead dads and paralyzed mailmen and the lie that almost sunk you both, he deserves to win. He deserves to shine. He deserves it all. It hurts a little, because that should be you at his side (a year ago, it _would _have been you), and a tiny pang of regret shoots through your chest; you push it away. Tonight isn't about the past; tonight is just about tonight.

Finn takes the floor with Megan and soon other dancers join them, Rachel curled in Matt Rutherford's arms (even if she doesn't take her eyes off Finn the entire time).

You sit down and ease off your heels. They're silver and sparkle in the dim light and while they're pretty you know they're for one night only. Tomorrow your life goes back to normal; tomorrow your pregnancy is the only thing anyone will see when they set eyes on you.

Kurt sits beside you and watches the dancers. His face is strangely blank and despite his aspirations to be Tim Gunn 2.0 when he grows up, he hasn't said a word of critique. "You always thought that would be you?" he asks, more a statement than a question. You follow his eyes to the dance floor, Megan Hathaway held lightly in Finn's arms, her blonde hair glittering in the light of the disco ball. You blink, just to make sure you aren't imagining, because she looks so much like you (could be you) that you have to wonder if god isn't playing a cruel joke.

You open your eyes and Finn is dancing with the poor man's version of yourself while you're watching from the sidelines. It hurts, even when it shouldn't. "It was supposed to be me," you confess. "We had plans, you know? Ohio State, an apartment in Columbus, walking our dog in the park on Sunday mornings…" you trail off. The song ends and Rachel slides into Finn's arms with a perfect fit. "Plans change." Tears prick your eyes, threaten to spill, and this time they have nothing to do with the hormones.

He looks at you, his expression filled with understanding. "I've known who I am since I was ten-years-old. There are some things I'm never going to have, but this shouldn't be one of them." He looks at you and there are tears in his own eyes. "Everyone deserves a Prom."

You struggle to smile, because you might be pregnant and alone, but he has the harder road to travel. "I'm a hippopotamus in a tutu."

He shrugs, blinks the tears away. "My pants are so tight it's a good thing I'm never having kids." He takes your hand, presses a gentle kiss to its back. "There's no statute of limitations on rites of passage."

You remember a snippet of conversation between him and Mercedes one day at Glee practice, his gaze focused on Finn the entire time. You lean in, cup his cheeks in your hands, and press a butterfly kiss to his lips. It lasts a few seconds, nothing more, but his eyes are wide and blinking when you pull back with a smile, a real smile, on your face.

"What was that for?" he asks, a little breathless, his eyes still a bit wild.

"Everyone deserves a first kiss that means something. Thank you, Kurt, for bringing me here tonight."

It's his turn to blush, all the way to the hairline that doesn't move. "My dad will die when he realizes I went to Prom with the head cheerleader."

"In twenty years, when my baby asks about my Prom, the only story I'm going to tell is the hero that took pity on a pregnant girl and made it the night of her life."

He leans back in his chair and wraps his arm over your shoulder. You watch Finn pull Rachel close, a shared smile lighting their faces, and it still hurts but your chest doesn't burn. Instead, you rest your head on Kurt's shoulder as the lights twinkle around you and the music pounds through your blood and your feet tap in time to the beat.

Things change but some dreams still come true.

---

**VIII. Santana**

---

Regionals are three days before your due date and Mr. Schuester wants you to stay home and put up your feet but you refuse. Glee has been the only positive thing in your life for the past nine months; they might have to push you on stage in Artie's spare wheelchair but you won't miss it for the world.

Brittany is in charge of costumes, and when you stay late on a Wednesday afternoon to pick up your uniform, you feel a pain in your back.

You don't think much of it the first time. You've been to the hospital twice with Braxton-Hicks contractions and you're sure this time is no different.

Brittany is running late and you walk around the chorus room rubbing your lower back while Rachel frets. Santana ignores you and Tina can't take her eyes off you and Kurt runs to get you water and Finn and Matt and Mike mostly look embarrassed. Puck strums his guitar and won't meet your eyes.

Another pain hits, and then another, and then you can't ignore the shallowness of your breathing or the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. "Oh my god," you manage to say. "I think this is it."

Everyone jumps to attention at once, talking over each other in their rush to take charge. It gets loud, so loud your head starts to hurt as much as your back, when Santana's cool, calm voice that breaks through the noise. "I'll drive," she instructs. "If it means all of you will shut up." She crosses her arms over her chest and stares them down and even Rachel folds. "Everyone follow behind me if you want to catch the show." She raises an eyebrow, but no one utters a word of protest.

It's nearly silent in the car as Santana navigates the short route to the hospital, more awkward than that first car ride with Mercedes, and you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest because again it's all your fault. Santana and Puck might have broken up before you found out about the baby, but they were certainly together when it was conceived. You've been friends since kindergarten but she stopped talking to you the day the truth came out. You're not surprised; you can't blame her for hating you.

"Thank you for driving me."

She shrugs casually, but her fingers tighten on the wheel, eighteen years of friendship and one betrayal carving grooves into the fine leather. "I didn't want your water breaking all over my new shoes."

Another pain spikes through your back and you breathe through it while she keeps her eyes trained on the road. You don't press her further and turn to look out the window instead. You love Ohio in springtime, when everything is green and new and full of promise. You press a hand to your aching belly; it's fitting that your daughter would push her way into the world with the flowers and birds and bees.

"Why did you do it?" Santana breaks the silence, her fingers turning white as they grip the wheel. You stare at her blankly because it could mean anything: getting pregnant, lying to Finn, becoming friends with Rachel, kissing a gay boy on Prom night. When you don't respond, she sighs angrily and clarifies. "Why did you sleep with my boyfriend? You could have had any guy you wanted. Why did you have to have mine?"

That night flashes before your eyes, the tears you cried after weigh-in and the way your fingers trembled over the keyboard of your phone and how you drowned your anger in booze because the person you loved most was leaving you (both of you) for someone else. You remember the way he kissed you, with his eyes open, like you might disappear if he looked away. You remember the way his fingers trembled as they fiddled with the zipper of your uniform. You remember the way he breathed your name as he came, body shuddering into yours.

You don't tell Santana any of it. You don't tell her that you were lonely and afraid and he made you feel beautiful and wanted. You don't tell her that he understood that losing Finn meant losing part of yourself. You don't tell her that when you looked into his eyes, dark and warm in the moonlight, you saw yourself staring back.

"I don't know," is what you say through gritted teeth. "He was there and I needed him. I didn't think much beyond that."

"I hated you for a long time."

"San…" you start, the nickname slipping from your lips even though you haven't called her that since the day Jacob Ben Israel ripped your life further apart.

She shakes her head. "I have every right to hate you, but I can't anymore." She keeps her eyes on the road but gestures to your belly, the sweat beading at your temples and the grimace plastered over your face. It hurts, hurts so much you can't think of much else, but you know this is too important to ignore. "This is bigger than both of us now," she says and you know she doesn't just mean the massive bulge of baby. "I saw how the others helped you, even when they didn't have to, even when it made no sense that they did. They didn't know you and they still stood by you. I wasn't there for you before, but I want to be now."

You remember the day Puck shared your secret with the world and she looked shocked and disgusted and a little bit like her world had fallen off its axis; you remember when she found out the truth, the real truth, and she stared at you with such betrayal in her eyes that you couldn't look into her face without wanting to cry; you remember when your belly started to swell and Puck got quiet and she stopped looking at you at all. But you also remember the first day of kindergarten, holding hands with her with matching orange bows in your hair (Buckeyes for life), and your first day of sixth grade with matching red headbands (McKinley High all the way), and your first day as Cheerios while you wobbled at the top of the pyramid and she kept you steady.

You smile through the pain, sins of Eve making you sweat and shake, and force the words out. "The Celibacy Club wasn't just about sex. It was about being a good Christian. It's Christian to forgive. I forgive you, Santana. I hope you can forgive me."

The car skids to a halt before she can say a word and she hurries to your door and helps you out. She screams for a nurse and stays with you while you fill out paperwork, holds your hand through each contraction until you're dilated enough for the epidural.

She still hasn't mentioned your conversation in the car even as you're squeezing her hand hard enough to crack a few fingers. "Why isn't Puck here?" she finally asks and your eyes round. If your baby was the elephant in McKinley High for the duration of your pregnancy, her paternity is definitely the one in your hospital room. "I dated him for a long time. For all his faults, and he has plenty, he'd want to be here with you."

"I wanted to this alone," you say softly and look her straight in the eye, let her in and let her know that this was your choice. "I made the mistake. I needed to fix it on my own."

"I forgive you, you know," she says and smiles, the devious Santana smile you've known all your life. "I should have said it earlier but I'm still kind of mad. I wanted you to stew for a while."

You laugh because she isn't perfect but she's here when you need her. "It gave me something to think about besides feeling like someone is trying to drive spikes though my back at twenty minute intervals."

There's a noise in the hallway and she looks up and smiles; there's nothing devious about it. "I know you think you did this by yourself, but you were never really alone."

You follow her gaze as Rachel bursts through the doorway, your overnight bag clasped in one hand and apologies about traffic pouring from her mouth. Mercedes is right behind her, Brittany too, and Kurt waves from the doorway.

You gasp on another pain, faster and harder than previous ones, and all four girls crowd around you. "Remember when we used to play house in first grade?" Santana says as she brushes sweaty hair off your brow. "This is the real thing, Q. Buck up and get ready."

Though the haze, Rachel tells you that Kurt is calling your parents and even though they haven't showed, you're not sure you care, because Santana and Brittany huddle on one side of your bed with Mercedes and Rachel on the other, and all the important people in your life are right where they need to be.

---

**IX. Puck**

---

It's a girl and she's as pretty and perfect as the day you first saw her on the sonogram.

Your labor is long, nearly twenty hours, and she's born early in the morning the day before Regionals. The girls stay with you the entire time, clasping your fingers and urging you on, and when your daughter finally makes her way into the world you feel like you all had a hand in giving her life.

Your mom arrives at the very end and you know from the determination in your eyes that she damned hell and high water to be here for you. She pushes through the crowd outside the room and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I'm so proud of you," she says as you scream through the final push and your daughter's wails fill the room. Your heart swells as they hold her up and you count all ten fingers and all ten toes and your mom sits beside your with tears dripping down her cheeks. There are still amends to be made but you don't have the energy to resent her any longer. She came through when it counted. She's here and she's with you and she's smiling at her granddaughter like she's the most beautiful thing in the world.

She is. She is beautiful, more beautiful than you ever imagined she could be. You're exhausted, your body spent and depleted, but you still have the energy to cradle her right against your heart. She's brand new and bright red, with a crinkled little face and scrunched up nose, but you still search her face for something of yourself.

It isn't there, not yet and maybe not ever, but you don't worry. No matter what she looks like, who she is or what she does, you'll love her all the same.

What feels like a million people are in your room the first day and you sleep very little but have never been happier. You're terrified of what's ahead, nursing and diapers and daycare and exams, but when you stare into her tiny face and the worry slips away. Any future seems easier with something so perfect as part of it.

---

You don't make it to Regionals.

You can barely walk and have stitches in places you'd rather not think about and milk is starting to leak and the entire thing is embarrassing and uncomfortable and you're happy you have one more day in the hospital before you have to face it in the real world.

The football team sucked and basketball wasn't much better but Glee is good, really good, and the Fox affiliate sends a cable crew and announcer to the show to bring actual talent into the living rooms of local Lima residents. You have a TV in your room, a private room because one of Rachel's dads knows the hospital administrator, and you prepare to watch what might have been without a crowd looking on.

It doesn't hurt as much as you though it would. Glee is important to you, the second most important thing in your life, but you're used to watching from the sidelines. Your new life won't leave much room for hogging the spotlight. You might as well get the practice in now.

---

You're not alone. Never really were, you learn. Everyone you know and love is busy singing or napping (she's two days old, there's not much else she does) or setting up a nursery (your mother puts her foot down and your father has no choice but to go along or find himself on the street), but ten minutes before show time you find yourself facing the last person on earth you expected to see.

Puck is standing in the doorway, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an envelope in the other. His hair has grown out and he's wearing a polo shirt and his sneakers are clean. He looks tired, exhausted, dark shadows lurking under warm, brown eyes, and you feel less self-conscious about the hair you haven't washed in two days and the bags under your own eyes.

"Hey," he says, shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Hey," you say in return and stare at the planes of his face, searching for your daughter there.

He looks away, a blush creeping up his neck, and clears his throat to push away the awkwardness. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Your words are clipped, formal. What do you say to the father of your baby when you haven't said more than two words to him in eight months?

He sets the flowers on your bedside table and pulls a chair over, foot tapping in a nervous rhythm against the linoleum. "These are for you," he says, gesturing to the flowers. They're lilies. Your favorite. You can't remember ever discussing them with him but they're here all the same. You feel tears prick your eyes (maybe hormones, maybe not) and you lean over and press your nose to the orange petals.

"They're beautiful."

He smiles, just the corners of his mouth turning up, and presses the envelope into your hand. "This is for her." Your eyes lock at the mention of the elephant in your lives, the baby sleeping down the hall that you made together and have yet to fully acknowledge.

Your fingers stumble over the fold and his move over yours, larger and rougher but warm against your skin. You both freeze at the contact, a memory flitting through your mind, his fingers tangled with yours as he moved inside you and started the journey led to this moment. You don't know what he's thinking but his breath hisses between his lips and his eyes lock with yours, only a few inches of space between you.

You're the one to pull away first and find your footing, managing to get the envelope open. It's money. More money than you've seen in your life, neat piles of hundred dollar bills that seem to go on forever.

"It's three thousand dollars," he explains. "It's not much, but it's all I have. I meant what I said about taking care of you – both of you. I can't promise to be rich but I'll always look after you."

"Puck," you sigh and his entire body stiffens. It's the first time you've said his name in nearly a year. You force yourself to look up, look into those brown eyes, and you can't look away from what you see there. He looks sad and he looks excited but he mostly looks scared. He looks like you. "I'm sorry," you whisper and when the tears start streaking down your cheeks you know it isn't the hormones.

"I hated you for a long time," he says and you cringe because you've heard the words before. But Santana gave you a happy ending; you hope he will too. "I hated you because I joined that freak show for you. I lied to my best friend for you. I put up with Rachel Berry for you. I – " he breaks off, takes a breath. "I would have done anything for you and every time you chose him."

"I didn't choose him," you say softly. "I chose her." The air freezes again, tightening around you, but you press on. Nine months on your own have taught you the value of forgiveness. You hope you can teach him the same lesson. "Every decision I made, I made for her."

He looks at you long and hard, but some of the anger slips from his face. He even smiles a little. "I wouldn't have trusted me either."

"You've changed, and I don't mean the money." You smile a little yourself. "I like your hair."

He shrugs, some of the familiar cockiness easing the rigid set of his shoulders. "I have a kid. I'm not the same guy anymore."

"We have a kid," you say and more tears leak from your eyes. All these months, you've had people at your side, but never like this. It's too much to share it with someone so close.

He senses the change and leans forward to brush the tears from your eyes. "What's her name?"

You haven't told a soul, not even Rachel, because you might have pushed him away but there are some things he should have first. "I named her Willa. Willa Fabray Puckerman."

He looks touched and then he looks confused and then he looks a little outraged. "For Mr. Schue?"

You laugh a little through the tears. "All these people came into my life. They didn't have to but they did. They saved me, saved us. I couldn't give her eight names so I chose the person who brought us all together."

"Willa Puckerman," he says softly and the words roll of his tongue and strike a chord right through your heart. This was supposed to be angry and guilt-ridden and ugly. It's not supposed to be this easy.

There's another knock and when you look up a nurse is standing in the doorway with your daughter cradled in your arms. "It's time for her midday feeding," she explains, eyes darting from you to Puck and back again. "Should I bring her back later?"

You glance over at Puck's awestruck face and shake your head. "Please bring her in."

Puck looks on, a cross between fear and amazement locked over his face. "She's really small," he says as she settles into your arms, watching you both with wide blue eyes.

"She'll grow." He nods, looking terrified, but doesn't look away. You pat the bed beside you. "Do you want to hold her?"

You forget how big he is as he slowly pushes back his chair and kicks off his shoes, settles beside you, warm and strong and different than you remember. Your shoulders are pressed together and it's quiet in the room, so quiet you think you can hear the rapid beat of his heart. "What if I break her?"

You shift your arms, settle your daughter into his. "You won't." He still looks terrified and his hands actually shake as one hand cradles the curve of her skull but she just lies back and watches him with wide eyes. His eyes. It takes your breath away, seeing him reflected in her, and you can't keep from leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead.

In the background, cheering fills the room and you both turn to the television. New Directions is taking the stage, red shirts and jeans and converse sneakers moving to the beat as the opening chords fill the room.

"You're supposed to be there."

His hand creeps over the blanket and finds yours. "I'd rather be here with you."

You scoot a little closer, careful not to jostle your daughter, and rest your head on his shoulder, keep your eyes trained carefully on the tv screen. "There are pools in Michigan," you say shyly. "I bet some of them even need cleaning."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Over your daughter's head, his lips press a gentle kiss to your temple. Your eyes drift closed. "We're going to be fine."

_Don't stop believin'. Hold on to the feelin'…_

* * *

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